


Returning to His Blogger

by teamrocket



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-19
Updated: 2012-04-19
Packaged: 2017-11-03 22:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teamrocket/pseuds/teamrocket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns to John after three years of being "dead." Yet, John doesn't seem to react at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Returning to His Blogger

**Author's Note:**

> Idea from [this prompt](http://sillyunicorntime.tumblr.com/post/16855009431/oh-god-i-just-had-the-most-depressing-thought-ever).  
>  **EDITED: 8/5/12** Because I never did like the word choice I used to end it, and my friend was reading it, so I remembered that I wanted to rewrite it.

 His shoes pitter-pattered against the worn, familiar London roads, racing down the street by their own accord. It had been so long since he'd been in London, the only place he'd ever call home, but he didn't stop to revisit any of his favorite places or stop to let anyone know that he was back in town again. They'd find out soon enough; only one person mattered right now. He felt his long coat billow up and flutter in the wind like a cape – an everyday occurrence for him – but this time, it didn't feel like it usually did; it felt like old times. With John.

Sherlock let out a laugh, growing more and more eager and elated as his legs took him closer to 221b. He knew that people were staring, that mothers were pulling their children away from the “mad man”, that Mycroft's people would alert his older brother of his return, and Mycroft would inform Lestrade, who would tell Donovan and Anderson, but it didn't matter. By the time Mycroft found out, John would already know. Sherlock felt like a bird, spreading his tweed sleeves out like wings. He glided across the corner to Baker Street where he was sure John still lived – Mrs. Hudson would let him stay in the flat, or Mycroft would pay for his rent in Sherlock's absence. Either way, he had kept in touch with Molly, the only person who knew the truth about the circumstances concerning his demise, and she had filled him in on John's condition every time he called to check-in.

The consulting detective glided to 221b and screeched to a stop. He stood precariously on the doorstep, motionless, balanced on the balls of his feet, silently staring down the navy blue door. The barrier between the flat and the outside world never seemed so solid. For a brief second, he felt something inside him falter, a small feeling of self-doubt in the back of his head, but he pushed it aside, not knowing what else to do with it. Sherlock reached into his shirt, pulling the thin silver chain over his head. He had been wearing his old key over his neck since the day he died, one of the few things he had abroad to remember John by. Sherlock had never used the key; it was always John who unlocked and relocked the door, which Sherlock saw no reason for. He supposed that it kept the unwanted out, but anyone who wanted to enter 221b enough could easily enter with enough skill. Still, he supposed that the action of locking the door was reassuring to John.

Sherlock twisted the doorknob open and slipped through the door unnoticed. He silently ascended the staircase past Mrs. Hudson, who was having a cup of tea with Mrs. Turner in the other room. The flat was devoid of all life; John wasn't home yet. It looked relatively the same as it had when he was still living in it, but John had probably replaced his body parts in the fridge with jam and milk. He noticed that John had removed his skull from the mantel, but his violin was still sitting by the window in its case, accompanied by the music stand. Sherlock sank into his own armchair and waited.

*

His long eyelashes fluttered open. He had been daydreaming! About John, nevertheless. Sherlock mentally chided himself for allowing himself to be so uncharacteristically unalert, and then froze. Footsteps on the stairs. More importantly, _John's_ footsteps. John was tired, Sherlock noticed, from the slower pace and softer, but still noisy, tread. He could hear the slight scrape of John's finger against the railing – it sending chills of desire that he did not understand up his back – and John's feet being dragged up the stairs. Sherlock was impatient now, anxious and eager to the point that it hurt. He had waited so long, existed so long without seeing his army doctor's gentle face. His only friend's face.

John was in sight now, but the army doctor was looking down at his feet, not noticing the presence of his estranged best friend. Sherlock withheld a gasp of satisfaction and took the moment to scrutinize his friend. Tired, weary, melancholy –  _Maybe because of him?_ Sherlock speculated with pangs of guilt – just performed surgery, probably heart related, had tea and biscuits with strawberry jam earlier, call from Mycroft, new jumper – a gift from Harry, as John was wearing it despite the unbecoming design and scratchy material. Sherlock chuckled under his breath at the sight of the jumper, prompting John to finally look up.

John froze, his foot suspended in midair over the top step. A range of emotions crossed his face, flickering too fast for Sherlock to identify them individually, but they seemed to match up with what he had predicted. Sherlock silently observed as John processed the fact that his dead best friend was somehow sitting in their flat again, lightly pressing the tips of his fingers together. He waited for John to say something, anything, but the army doctor seemed incapable of speech. Finally, Sherlock broke the silence.

“John, what did you do with my skull?” Slowly, John circled the armchair, inspecting him. “John, I assure you that I am real, that I am indeed alive.” John sighed, his face settling on disappointment, caused a nasty jerk in Sherlock's stomach, and finally met Sherlock's inquisitive look.

“How did I know that you would come back today?” he sighed, sounding slightly exasperated.

The side of Sherlock's mouth twitched up. “Intuition?” he suggested.

“Sherlock, I'm tired. I can't do this today.” Sherlock's face fell slightly, and he struggled to maintain a pleasant grin on his face for John – his cheeks twitching – although it resembled more like a spasmodic grimace. Dozens of different explanations for John's behavior raced through his mind, all tinged by panic; John's reaction had deviated from the way Sherlock had fantasized – no,  _expected_ , he didn't fantasize – it to go. Perhaps he was still in shock and needed a little time to process it. Of course! He had simply overlooked that although John was brighter than the average, dull human, his friend still didn't have the superior intellect that he possessed and needed more time for it to sink in!

“Alright, I'll go catch up with Mrs. Hudson. Okay, John?”

John mumbled something under his breath like “The hell you will,” as he shuffled away.

“Of course I will! Why wouldn't I?” John did not answer.

*

“Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson! May I use your phone?” Sherlock called out. The aging woman rushed out at the sound of his voice, her face lighting up when she saw him.

“Sherlock!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, yes, I am indeed alive. I had to fake my death or else Moriarty's men would've killed John, you, and Lestrade. Don't worry; they're all dead now. I personally saw to that.”

“Oh, Sherlock! You're alive!” she said again, looking as if she were about to faint.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I'm alive. We've been over this. Could I use your phone now?”

“Oh, Sherlock. I've missed you terribly! It's a good thing you returned now. You put us all through some dark times. John, of course, took your death the hardest, understandably. Oh! Does he know yet?”

“Yes, yes, we just had a little chat. He's going to bed now. Phone, please?”

“Oh, but–“ Sherlock cut her off.

“Phone, Mrs. Hudson, phone! No doubt that my brother's already been informed and has notified Lestrade already.”

Mrs. Hudson sighed. “Same old Sherlock,” she said fondly, reaching up to tuck one of his wild curls behind his ear. “It's where it was before.”

“Thank you Mrs. Hudson. I've missed you. Could you bring a cup of tea up, later, for John? I think he could do with one.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled softly. “Landlady, not your housekeeper,” she said, stroking his scarf.

*

Even before he opened his pale blue eyes, Sherlock knew that he was not in his own bed. Perhaps it was the way the lower thread count of the sheets felt against his skin, or the different amount of sunlight in the room, but whatever it was, it didn't matter right now. He opened his eyes and found himself facing the all-too-familiar bedside table, semi-curled up in a ball with his feet tucked into John's side. He was still wearing his clothes from yesterday – his dark purple button-up shirt, now creased from being slept in, and black trousers – although his coat was downstairs, draped across his abandoned bed. John had, apparently, been so fatigued last night that he had simply crashed after Sherlock had left, and Sherlock had found him in bed, fully clothed, dead to the world. The consulting detective had attempted to undress his sleeping companion, but John's soldier days had trained him too well, Sherlock thought ruefully, gingerly cupping the small wound that was now on his cheek. Sherlock had stayed by his friend, watching him sleep, until he, too, had drifted off.

Sherlock rolled over and found himself face-to-face with his best friend, their noses a hair's-breadth apart. He scowled at the tasteless jumper, which he blamed for his cheek. John was still in a light slumber, but could easily be roused now, he noticed from his companion's breathing patterns.

Sherlock lightly stroked John's ash-blond hair, his face settling into a tranquil disposition. John murmured something intelligible and buried his head into Sherlock's chest, nuzzling it with his nose.

“Sherlock,” he mumbled, still asleep, as he suddenly draped his arm over the taller man's lean body. Sherlock froze, his hand resting on his friend's head, as every part of his body that John touched turned a pleasingly numbing warm. He felt John's leg move between his own as his friend mumbled something else in his sleep, faintly tickling Sherlock's chest as his lips moved.

“Good morning,” Sherlock said pleasantly, stirring his friend from his dreams. John rolled away from Sherlock, still half-asleep. His brown eyes squinted, squeezing tightly to shut out the bright sunlight that had, a second ago, been obstructed by Sherlock's chest, before opening. They focused on Sherlock's face, and for a moment, the consulting detective's could've sworn that a faint smile crossed his companion's face.

“Good morning, John.” he repeated. “Are you conscious enough to worry about people talking?” The brunette smiled fondly, briefly reminiscing about old times.

John groggily scrunched up his face. “Of course,” he muttered. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. For a second, he had fretted over John still being in some state of shock, but he should've known that his best friend would've pulled through. After all, he was in Afghanistan! Surely, if the army doctor had lived through the shell-shock, he could easily accept that his formerly-deceased best friend was alive once more.

“So, John, what are we going to do today? I called Lestrade yesterday to let him know that I'm back in town, but he didn't give me any cases that needed to be solved. Maybe I should call him again.” John frowned and opened his mouth to say something, but right then, Mrs. Hudson burst in the door.

“Oh, dear! I'm sorry, boys, I should have knocked!” she exclaimed, covering her eyes and quickly scooting out the door.

“Nonsense, Mrs. Hudson! We're fulling clothed and presentable. And if John were more clearheaded right now, he would be quick to justify his heterosexuality...” Sherlock paused, “or is he over that yet?” He glanced down at the army doctor, who was turning paler by the minute.

“John? You look like you've seen a ghost.” Sherlock bit his lip. Was it something he said?

“Anyway,” Mrs. Hudson continued, “I just popped by to check up on you two. I suppose you won't be needing these anymore?” She held up a few, large, flattened boxes. “It's a good thing you were so unproductive whilst packing. Otherwise, you'd have moved out days ago!”

“Move out? Wait, John, surely you weren't planning on leaving 221b?!” Sherlock said, alarmed. John rose up shakily out of bed, with the consulting detective following him, hovering over his shoulder. He stared at Sherlock wordlessly and then turned to look at Mrs. Hudson.

“Hang on,” he finally croaked, “so he's not just another hallucination trying to coax me to stay? He's not the same figment of my imagination that has been keeping me from packing all this time? Mrs. Hudson, you can see him too?”

Sherlock stared at his friend, speechless for once. He felt a huge lump in his throat, making it difficult to swallow. Slowly, he lifted his hand, hovering it uncertainly above John's shoulder before drawing it away. Sherlock was aware that his hand was trembling. He had imagined hundreds of scenarios to how their first reunion would go – 730, to be exact; he had imagined a different one with each passing day, but never had it even occured to the consulting detective, with all his brain, that it would go like this.

A cold, pale hand closed over John's tightly clutched fist.

"It's going to be okay," he murmured softly into his companion's ear, repeating the promise over and over again until it ceased to sound like words. It wasn't now, and it wouldn't be for a while, but it will. Someday. And Sherlock was going to be there to see it.


End file.
